The Lady Doesn't Object
by allthingsdecent
Summary: More spring cleaning! Another early fic: This one's a reimagining of the final scene of the dreaded Fall From Grace.
1. Chapter 1

"Go back and join the party," says Cuddy to Wilson. "I just need a minute alone."

Wilson hesitates.

"Go!" she orders. He cocks his head in that Cocker Spaniel way of his, and leaves.

Cuddy reaches into her purse, pulls out a Kleenex and a compact, blows her nose, dabs some powder on her face.

"You're getting powder on my conjugal bed."

It's House, standing in the doorway.

"Go away, House."

"I can't," he replies. "This is my room. Or, as you used to call it, the Fantasy Suite."

"You're so damn pleased with yourself," Cuddy says. "You got what you want, right? You made me cry. Satisfied?"

"That's not what I wanted." His voice is serious: "I never want to make you cry."

She glares him. "Then what the hell was this all about? This sham of a marriage? If not to make me cry, then what. . .?"

"I wanted you to. . ." he seems to be weighing whether or not to tell her the truth ". . . to object."

"You staged this whole wedding so I would object? That's twisted, even for you House. Did you have any plan for if I didn't object?"

He chuckles grimly, "Apparently not."

"But why House?"

His voice is quiet: "If you objected, it would mean you still love me."

She closes her eyes. Her frustration is mixed with something resembling relief.

"You know I still love you, House. This was never about me not loving you."

"_Now _you tell me. Then why'd you let me go through with it?"

"Because I forfeited the right to object when I broke up with you. It's your life, House. You have to make your own choices."

"Huh," he says, still half dazed. "So it looks like I'm married."

"Yeah, it looks that way."

"On the plus side, did you see how smokin' hot she is?"

"She's very pretty, House."

"I suppose a three-way is completely out of the question?"

She gets up. Strides toward the door.

"Good night, House."

"Good night, Cuddy."


	2. Chapter 2

He'd been told they needed to be seen in public sometimes to make the marriage look official. So he took her to dinner, a seedy little dive near the hospital.

She was so excited, you'd think he was taking her to The Four Seasons.

"I'm so happy! Like real married American couple!"

He had gotten extremely adept at tuning her out. She blathered on throughout dinner and he literally didn't hear a word she said.

"Mr. Greg. Mr. Greg?" He was suddenly aware of a foreign object—a fork in this case—being thrust toward his face.

She was trying to give him a taste of her salmon.

"Thank you, my little ball and chain," he said, dutifully taking a bite.

"What is this, ball and chain?" she said, wrinkling her nose.

"American term of endearment," he assured her.

"Oh," she said, momentarily contented.

"Mr. Greg? Why do you always ignore Dominika now?" she asked a few minutes later.

"I'm just the strong silent type."

"Speak softly and carry a big cane!" she announced. "You see my joke? I say cane, not stick."

"Very clever, my little toe jam."

To his left, a beautiful brunette was weaving her way toward their table.

Oh God. Cuddy.

She stood unsteadily before them, poked two fingers into Dominika's arm.

"You're stupid," she said. "Do you know how stupid you are? You think he's going to love you? You think you're going to live happily ever after? House loves me, you stupid, stupid girl!"

"You're drunk," House said, actually shocked.

"You're drunk!" she said back. In her current state of mind, this constituted a good comeback.

"I'm sober as a judge," he said.

"You're on vicodin!" she said.

Well, she had him there.

"Mrs. Doctor Cuddy, I am so sorry. Why are you angry at Dominika?"

Poor thing. She really didn't have a clue.

"Don't you Mrs. Doctor Cuddy me"—Cuddy released her fingers from Dominika's arm and almost lost her balance—"why don't you go back to pay-per-view headquarters or Vladimir Putin's sex ranch or whereever the hell it is you came from?"

"Now that's just mean," said House, trying to conceal a smirk.

He was half amused, half alarmed by her behavior. In all his years knowing Cuddy—as colleagues, as friends, as lovers— he'd never seen her drunk. Tipsy, yes. When they were dating, she'd have a few glasses of wine and get all adorably amorous. But even that was a willful loss of control. She allowed herself to get tipsy.

"Cuddy, for Christ's sake, what are you even doing here? This isn't your sort of place."

"I'm having fun!" she slurred. "You think you're the only one who can have fun?"

"Okay, while you're having all this fun, are you here by yourself?"

If she was alone, he knew she was his responsibility, whether he liked it or not.

"Of course not! I'm here with"—her eyes scanned the bar, clearly looking for someone plausible—"him!" She was pointing to a burly, 30something guy in a lumberjack shirt.

Oh yeah, definitely her type.

To prove her point, she staggered back to the bar, leaned into the guy, whispered something in his ear.

He leered at her. Looked beyond receptive.

The next thing he knew, she and Paul Bunyon were dancing. House tried not to watch, but he couldn't help himself. The guy was smothering her in his arms, practically enveloping her.

"Mr. Greg, why Mrs. Doctor Cuddy say you love her?"

"Wha?"

"Why Mrs. Doctor Cuddy say you love her?"

"I'll tell you later," he said, still watching. Now the guy was grabbing Cuddy's ass. She moved his hands away.

Atta girl.

The guy tried again. Again, she moved his hands. This time, the guy went for the kiss.

"Get the hell off me, creep!" She shoved the guy, but she was no match. Lumberjack moved in again, trying to kiss Cuddy's neck.

Oh shit.

"Wait here," instructed House. He limped over to the dance floor.

"Leave the lady alone, friend," he said.

"Mind your own damn business," Paul Bunyon said.

"She is my business," said House.

"Oh yeah? What are you going to do about it, asshole?" The guy looked primed for a fight.

House sighed. Apparently, he was going to get beat up.

"I'm going to have to ask you take this outside. You can even beat your chest like a gorilla. It'll be fun!"

"What's wrong with right here?"

He reared back and clocked House square in the jaw. House staggered back, tried in vain to put his weight on his good leg, and fell.

"You son of a bitch!" screamed Cuddy. She was jumping on lumberjack guy, who swatted her aside easily and started going for House again. He had found a better substitute for sex tonight. Violence.

Now Dominika was there, too. Screaming in Russian. Also trying to take swings at Paul Bunyon.

"You are horrible, horrible American man!" Dominika screamed.

But he was hellbent for House. He lurched toward him, until one of his buddies grabbed both his arms.

"Butch, he's a cripple." He gestured to House's cane.

"Well, fuck me," said Butch. He stopped in his tracks. "God, you're all a bunch of freaks. You deserve each other!"

And with that, he stormed off.

Dominika helped House up. Tried to hug him.

"Mr. Greg, you alright? You hurt?"

"I'm fine." His eyes scanned the room. Where did she go?

He rifled through his pockets. Found his car keys. Threw them at Dominika.

"Here," he said. "Find your way home." He wasn't totally sure that she knew how to drive.

######

He found Cuddy in the parking lot, trying to put the wrong end of her keys in her car.

"Oh no you don't," he said, grabbing the keys.

"I'm fine," she said.

"You're not driving," House said. "We'll share a cab."

"What about. .. Dominatrix?"

"She has my car," he said, ignoring her joke.

"Oh."

"Where's Rachel?" he said. Although he knew not to worry. Even an out of control Cuddy wouldn't allow herself to get hammered without a backup babysitting plan.

"She's spending the night at my mother's."

Of course.

They waited for the cab on a bench outside the bar.

"You know, I didn't need you back there," she said, slightly defiant.

"No, you were doing just great."

She regarded his jaw.

"Does it hurt?"

"A little."

She touched it gently. She hadn't touched him since that night in his apartment.

"House?"

"Yes Cuddy?"

"I feel. . .sick." And with that, she threw up all over his running shoes.

She passed out in the cab, her body pressed against his, as if by some sort of magnetic pull.

When they got to her house, he half walked, half carried her inside. She was barely 100 pounds, soaking wet. Made him feel like a he-man.

He's a cripple, the guy had said. House hated that word.

"House?" she said groggily.

"You smell like vomit," she giggled.

"That's because somebody threw up on me."

"But you still smell good to me. You smell like House." She sniffed his neck, smiled beatifically.

He steered her toward the bedroom. Placed her on the bed.

"House?"

"Yes Cuddy?

"You wanna have sex?"

"Yes," he said honestly.

"Me too." She started to tug at his shirt. Went to kiss him.

"Maybe we'll have sex after you take a nap," he advised.

"Okay," she said obediently. In seconds, she was asleep.

He thought about taking her clothing off, putting on her pajamas— those cute little boxer shorts and tank top he used to loved so much—but he was afraid she'd get mad.

So he took off her jacket and her shoes, pulled the covers up her neck, and left.

#######

He stopped by her office the next day.

She was surprisingly put together for someone who'd been so viciously drunk the night before. The only tell-tale signs were her bloodshot eyes and the giant bottle of aspirin on her desk.

"How's Lindsay Lohan this morning?" he said.

She looked up him.

"Oh God," she said.

"Nope, just me."

"Oh God," she said again. "Your jaw. It's all coming back to me, in tiny, horrifying waves. I'm so so so sorry, House."

"It's okay. You're a cute drunk."

"Embarrassed isn't the word for it. Ashamed isn't the word. There has to be a word stronger than shame."

"Mortification?" he offered.

"Yes. That. Oh God, please tell Dominika I'm sorry. I was mean to her. I distinctly remember being mean."

"Don't worry. She's already forgotten it. She doesn't retain much."

"And. . .?" Cuddy cringed. "Was there puke?"

"Cute puke," said House.

He was being nice to her for the first time since the breakup. Last night, he'd seen how hurt she was. How she was as much of a mess as he was. And, he had to admit, it made him feel better.

"Mostly House, I want to thank you for not taking advantage."

"Cuddy, you know better than anyone, that I never have sex with someone who doesn't want to have sex with me. Unless I'm paying for it. Or, uh, embroiled in a regrettable fake marriage with them."

"But apparently, last night I did want to have sex with you," Cuddy groaned.

"That was the 7 shots of tequila talking," he said.

"Yeah," she said. They exchanged a look. "You know House. For an asshole, you're a pretty nice guy."

"Thanks Cuddy. You owe me new pair of running shoes."


End file.
